From the Heart
by deepseadare
Summary: Time trickled past, a few minutes turning into a few hours. All the while, everything seemed to fade around him. The dull, rhythmic sounds of his scribbling sounded in his ears like a gentle lullaby. - The three things keeping Karamatsu sane.


1\. Drawing.

Snap .

"Ah," he said aloud, hand stuttering in its movements. A small puff of graphite landed on his paper, which he promptly blew away.

Karamatsu brought the pencil to his face, narrowing his eyes as he studied the splintered wood and the now broken tip. He groped for the pencil sharpener at his side until his hands felt the familiar, cool plastic. He swiftly turned the pencil inside it with a familiar rhythm, the blade well-worn from constant use gently shaving away at the sides.

He wasted no time getting back to his task.

Long stroke.

Short stroke.

Another short stroke.

Another long stroke and-

Hm. He'd made a mistake.

Karamatsu huffed, quickly rubbing it out with his eraser before continuing again, his back hunched over the sketchpad and his eyes tracing his every movement.

Watching his strokes spread across the page spread a warm feeling just beneath his skin. He was slowly putting something together.

It was during these times that he felt calm and at peace. He let himself slip into his art, let himself put his all into capturing the gentle folds and bold shadows. A small smile pulled subconsciously at the corners of his mouth.

Time trickled past, a few minutes turning into a few hours. All the while, everything seemed to fade around him. The dull, rhythmic sounds of his scribbling sounded in his ears like a gentle lullaby.

After a time, Karamatsu placed his pencil down, and time seemed to catch up with him in an instant. His back ached from being hunched over, neck strained from looking down, eyes fatigued from no sleep, and wrist pulsing and screaming for rest. His whole body felt stiff, and it was only at that moment he'd realized the sun had long since slipped down from its perch in the sky.

Karamatsu got up, setting the sketch book aside into his personal hiding spot as he stood up. A few of his bones cracked as he stretched his limbs. His feet dragged behind him as he padded towards the room where his brothers were already sleeping, no doubt.

With a satisfied sigh, he slipped under the covers, his back relaxing ever so slightly in a way of thanks. He brought his hand up in the air, letting it fall into the path of moonlight slipping in through a crack in the blinds. He stared at the graphite smudged on the side, and a mental image of his drawing flickered in his mind.

He let his arm drop back down and turned on his side, only to be reminded of the soreness he'd subjected himself to. Shutting his eyes peacefully, Karamatsu figured he wouldn't have it any other way.

2\. Music

Calloused fingers plucked at the strings. He stared off at a point in the distance as he strummed, each note sending a vibration through him. His vision was out of focus, but he didn't seem to mind. Karamatsu's feet rocked gently over the edge of the roof as he thought of what to play. A slight breeze kissed his face, early morning sunlight and fresh air clinging to his pajamas as he pondered.

He felt his strums growing faster. Karamatsu's eyes slowly drifted closed as he leaned back a bit, letting the sun warm his body. He sighed softly as a familiar song bubbled up to the surface of his mind. His fingers fell into the pattern, their muscles having memorized the movements.

Well, I tried to make it Sunday,

but I got so damn depressed,

that I set my sights on Monday,

and I got myself undressed.

Somewhere down the street door had opened. A flock birds flew through the sky, melodious chirps trailing behind them. People were setting up their shops. Making breakfast. Getting ready for school.

I ain't ready for the altar,

but I do agree there's times,

when a woman sure can be a friend of mine.

Akatsuka ward was slowly but surely waking up.

Well, I keep on thinkin' 'bout you,

sister golden hair surprise,

and I just can't live without you.

Can't you see it in my eyes?

Music flowed through his ears. His head bobbed gently as he played. He felt a hum rising in his throat.

He bit it back.

I've been one poor correspondent,

and I've been too, too hard to find,

but it doesn't mean you ain't been on my mind.

A buzz of gentle snoring sounded from his bedroom window just below him. It was just him and the universe. Gradually, he let the tension in his shoulders fall away.

Will you meet me in the middle?

Will you meet me in the air?

Will you love me just a little

Just enough to show you care?

He felt his muscles clench.

Well, I tried to fake it,

and I don't mind saying

I just can't make it.

He let out a breath as the last line rolled off of his tongue, and-

Oh, had he started singing?

Suddenly, a slam sounded from beneath him, and a jolt of surprise shot up his spine, causing him to nearly losing his hold on his guitar and slip over the edge. Karamatsu clutched the guitar to his chest, throwing himself back against the roof shingles. His chest rose and fell frantically for a few moments more before his heart settled down again.

Gently cradling his guitar, he slowly sat upright and peered over the edge.

Ichimatsu stared back at him with blank, unblinking eyes.

Karamatsu chuckled nervously, fingers moving over the wood of his guitar with a slight shakiness. "Ahh, my little Ichimatsu," he smiled at him, "how are you this fine morni-"

"It's 7 AM, dumbass," he spat, right eye twitching slightly as he did so. "So shut up."

And with that, the window slid harshly shut.

A few seconds passed before a muffled voice came from inside, "AND DON'T CALL ME THAT."

Karamatsu sat there, staring at the closed window. He blinked a few times before he let his back hit the shingles once again, the action punctuated with a tired sigh.

He stared up, studying the puffy white clouds streaking across the dreamy blue-gold sky. He held the guitar to his chest and hummed something to himself. Even as his back stiffened and begged for the soft tatami mat, he continued to stare up, unmoving, with warm fingers clutched gently around his guitar.

3\. Writing

Scraps of paper he'd taped in jut out from between the pages of his notebook.

Napkins.

Receipts.

Envelopes.

Anything he'd been able to find at the time, really.

They were filled toe to tip with little bits of his heart: Poems. Songs. Wishes.

Yesterday he'd filled three whole pages with word vomit about a passing stranger who'd offered him an umbrella on a rather rainy day. He'd written about the kindness showing through in the depths of his brown eyes, the gentle crinkle of his nose when he'd smiled, the rough but comforting tone of his voice, and the way his simple concern had Karamatsu's eyes widening and breath hitching. However, he had decided to leave out the part about how he'd bawled his eyes out afterwards.

On a napkin shoved far back into his notebook, he recounted his days in school. The days he had and his brothers had spent romping through the neighborhood with a spring in their step, a heart bursting with happiness and hope, and with the thought of where their lives were going being the farthest thing from their minds. The joy he'd felt at being united with his brothers. The days when he still called Osomatsu 'niisan'. The days he and Ichimatsu still understood each other. The days he'd lived with the joy of knowing that he was them, and they were him.

He'd also written a love song. Pages and pages of flowery lyrics dripping with sincerity and proclaiming his absolute love for someone who he wasn't even sure he'd ever meet. Pages he'd looked back on many times, eyes studying the words so often, he was sure he could recite them if asked. Not like anyone ever would.

Another day he'd written about how his vision felt skewed and bleak. How he felt like the biggest, darkest black hole, buzzing with static and noise. How his heart had raced a million miles a minute for seemingly no reason at all. How his body had felt less like him and more like an ill-fitting coat. How he'd spent so long trying to convince himself that he was allowed to take up space. How the sorrow slinked into every corner of his body like tiny snakes. How he'd pictured himself against asphalt with stark, white tape outlining his form. How the world just kept turning and turning and turning, leaving him behind on his knees, begging for it to slow down. To let him catch up.

He'd written about pouring days.

About glowing days.

About burning days.

Stories and universes he'd spawned in his mind sat in the corners of the pages, characters and plots scattered all throughout his small, insignificant notebook.

He kept it safe. Shoved in the back of his drawer or buried in bottom of his leather jacket pocket, a pencil held snugly in its spiral cord. To him, it was something he could hold onto to keep him grounded. To keep him sane.

Art was his passion. It helped him survive. It helped him feel like he mattered. It helped him feel like he was something in the bleak, unforgiving unknown.

And maybe it was utter shit. And maybe he was screaming into a void that didn't care about him. And maybe everything he created meant nothing to others.

But god. It made him feel so fucking wonderful.


End file.
